The Black Lily of Shanghai
by Mimizuku9
Summary: AU. Modern-day Shanghai. Yao Wang, a violinist haunted by grief, becomes enchanted by the eerily familiar man he meets in the ruins of an abandoned theatre. Following one curiosity after another, Yao quickly finds himself neck-deep in hidden pasts and century-old secrets – but by then the dream has already become a nightmare. RoChu.
1. Prelude

**WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions and references to suicide. Please read at your own discretion.**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: All character names are the ones Hidekaz Himaruya has either officially assigned or suggested for each character. The excerpt at the beginning is from the poem "Я вас любил" ("I Loved You") by Alexander Pushkin.**

 **This is the prelude; no major warnings apply just yet. But expect a story about ghosts, reincarnation, and mental breakdowns :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,_

 _В душе моей угасла не совсем_

 _I loved you; and perhaps that love has yet_

 _To be extinguished completely from within my soul_

* * *

In the city that never slept, Yao found himself appropriately restless at the stroke of midnight. Red and gold swam in his head, fading wisps of a dream that had felt more like memory than imagination. He couldn't remember what it had been about, only that it had set his heart into a beating frenzy, and that he'd rather stare up at the ceiling than close his eyes and dream it again.

Wiping the sweat off his brow, he blindly reached for the wrinkled pile of clothes by his bed. The canary was quiet, likely asleep, so he tiptoed his way through the cramped house when he was dressed, sliding a bag up onto his shoulder and creeping out through the back door. He would take the old shortcut, as always.

The distant roar of a motorbike ripped through the air. A few streets away, music faintly throbbed. The faraway high-rise towers still dazzled with lights like stars, though floor by floor they were beginning to disappear. He walked towards them, through an alleyway with hanging laundry for a sky and onto the open streets of the former French Concession, crosscutting through an old park where he and Kiku had carved out a well-worn path in the grass as children.

It was here that he felt him strongest, in the perfect stillness of a quiet street that resembled how it had looked the night before, and the many nights before that. There wasn't a soul around to dare to taint it, save for Yao who teased the shadows by stepping only where the streetlights reached, and hummed the songs that had once been sung by two. The street echoed it back to him, and with a shiver he quickened his steps, slowing them only when he reached cracked stone steps. He glanced up to see what new damage had been done today.

Scaffolding. What used to be a grand, albeit crumbled, theatre, was now some millionaire's pet project, and though at least a dozen or so attempts had been made in the last half-century to fix it, none had ever succeeded. The work was too dangerous. The building had a sly way of dropping beams and stage lights on workers, as if by selection offering its parts without compromising its structural integrity. No one was sure how it even stood upright by this point, though Yao had enough faith in it to enter night after night. He was its honoured guest since the age of seven, and in all fifteen years not once had he gotten hurt by it.

He carefully stepped through the bars holding up the new scaffolding, gently pushing open the main door. It gave way with a metallic creak, a little hello, a greeting. He slipped in and turned on his flashlight, tutting with dismay as the light flickered and died. He'd forgotten to bring spare batteries.

Like raindrops, piano keys trickled in the dark. Yao tensed.

Another sound, a chord, a deliberate climbing of its notes until they reached their peak.

"Who's there?" Yao called out.

A brushing, quiet breath, maybe laughter. " _Why don't you come up here and see?_ "

The words sounded strange, in that low, rolling voice. Yao couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something off, something about that voice that was making his heart beat a little faster. He felt around in the dark for the familiarity of the theatre seats to guide him back out, when the stage lights buzzed and flickered on, spitting sparks into the dusty air. There was a man seated at the piano onstage, wrapped in a dark coat and with hands so pale they made the piano keys look off-white.

" _Come up here."_

"What are you doing in here?" Yao asked, ignoring the quickening of his pulse as he walked across the flattened, mucky carpet. "No one is allowed here. People get hurt."

Yao climbed up onto the stage, annoyed that the man – this intruder – didn't appear to be listening. When he was within an arm's reach, the man's moon-pale face turned to him – a hard gaze staring into Yao's own. Black pupils followed him when Yao took an apprehensive step back.

" _Do you play?"_ the man asked, his lips moving but the rest of his face still as stone. Yao nodded. The man tilted his head in the direction of a stool. _"Follow after me."_

Yao glanced at the man's hands, poised and ready on the piano. He took a seat on the stool and unzipped his bag, heart beating hard in his chest as he pulled his violin out. He never improvised for strangers, only on empty stages and in intimate shadows. For the past year or so, it had only been the same repertoire of cold technical pieces, ones he gave little warmth or heart to. Yet, when this man asked, he felt compelled to play for him the same way he once played for Kiku.

The first few notes struck hard – deep, rumbling waves that set Yao's hairs on end, climbing to a quick crescendo before free-falling. Then it was quiet, and out of the silence softer, sweeter notes rose out, and Yao's own hands longed to move in tandem. He drew the bow stick, following a melody he'd never heard before, though his fingers told him otherwise. He closed his eyes for a moment – for perhaps his only peaceful moment of rest in this night – and felt that he was perhaps dreaming, that he had returned somewhere he had no recollection of.

Feeling conscious of being watched, he opened his eyes, blinking to the sight of the dazzling, broken stage, and the ghostly man across from him. A mirthful look glided his way, a faint smile dancing on that man's lips.

" _Moya chyornaya liliya… Close your eyes again for me."_

Yao didn't quite want to. There was something catching in that look, something beautifully broken about it, though he shut his eyes once more to find that euphoric feeling again. He carried on, letting his hands do the work, until he realised that all he could hear was the haunting, lonely song of his violin. He opened his eyes.

The man was gone – and with him, he had taken the melody. Though Yao attempted to retrieve it, his hands could no longer play it, and within a few moments, he could no longer even remember what it had sounded like. One by one, like the towers of Shanghai at the stroke of midnight, the stage lights fizzled out and died.

It wasn't until dawn broke over the horizon, until Yao tiredly crept out the theatre doors, that he realised what had sounded odd about the way the man spoke. He had been speaking in Russian. A language Yao knew none of. Yet, even as the sky shirked off its night veil, Yao could still remember what that man had called him, what that name meant. _Chyornaya liliya_ , he had called him – his black lily _._


	2. Reacquaintance

"Once more."

Jia Long rolled his eyes. Yao pretended not to notice and sat back in his chair, listening to the flow of the violin. The notes were well-practiced, yes, but too hurried, too imperceptibly wobbly in their tempo. That was why the metronome was there, ticking away, though his student didn't seem to pay it much attention. Yao signalled for Jia Long to stop.

"Listen to the metronome for a bit and try again. It needs to be slower."

Jia Long sighed and relaxed the violin on his shoulder. "It's been an hour."

Yao checked his watch. "We have time for a little more. Just play it one more time."

"I already did."

"No, you rushed through it. Again. It's a waltz – play it like one, like something you could dance to."

Jia Long pursed his lips. He didn't quite have the language barrier as an excuse anymore; though he used to like to pretend his Mandarin wasn't very good, or that Yao's Shanghai accent was too strong, Yao had long since cottoned on in the past three years that Jia Long understood his instructions quite perfectly.

"Fine," Jia Long muttered. Yao signalled for him to start playing. The violin sang once more – this time, leisurely, sweetly, _measuredly_. It was far better now. Yao was pleased, and apparently so was the canary. It chirped from the living room, as if attempting to join in. Yao caught Jia Long suppressing a smile.

A loud knock, and then several more in rapid fire, put the music to a halt. Yao motioned for Jia Long to continue and got up to answer the front door. Cursing softly under his breath, he yanked it open.

"Yong Soo, I told you I have lessons –"

A newspaper punched out towards Yao's face. "Read this and tell me I'm the best."

Yao scoffed and pushed the newspaper away, revealing a grinning Yong Soo behind it. "Come back later –"

"It's about your precious theatre."

Yao paused, long enough for Yong Soo to let himself in without much resistance. He grabbed the newspaper out of Yong Soo's hands and scrutinised the article. After months of renovation over the summer, an opening ceremony had finally taken place. A full house, which had apparently gotten to witness the orchestra warm up before a stage light and its clamp had fallen. A cello player's head had been crushed beneath it. A handful of musicians had since quit the orchestra.

He sighed and glanced up at Yong Soo's gleeful face. "Don't you have an ounce of shame in you?"

"I know, I know, it's terrible. But –"

"There's a free spot for you."

Yong Soo nodded enthusiastically. "And you. One of their violin players quit. Is that fate or what?"

"It's what happens when people tamper with old buildings."

"But doesn't it feel a little too coincidental? I mean, that stage clamp had a screw loosened, but have you even seen those things? They're more like bolts. If you ask me, someone – or something – wants you in that orchestra."

Yao winced a smile, recognizing that Yong Soo was not-so-successfully attempting to appeal to his superstitious side. "I'm not auditioning. Spirits or not."

"Why not?"

"I don't play for orchestras. Or theatres."

"You totally do! Just last year you –"

"Yong Soo," Yao said slowly, almost seething. "Leave it be."

It was enough to make him go quiet for a moment. Though it was what Yao intended, he instantly regretted it. He didn't like it when their conversations fell silent like this. It was an ungentle reminder that things were different now, that there were things they'd somehow decided would remain unspoken. But surely Yong Soo knew what he was asking of Yao. To play his violin – to truly play it, with intention, with emotion – in front of a judge panel? No audience deserved it. That man in the theatre had been an accident, and Kiku had been, and always would be, the one for who Yao played.

Yong Soo was the first to break the silence. "Are you coming down to Frisco's tonight?"

Yao broke out of his daze. "Yeah."

"I thought to bring someone over for the piano part."

"You keep saying that."

"Yeah, but for real this time. I'm getting sick of just cello and violin. I don't care if the tips will get split three ways, at least we won't be playing trio pieces without a piano."

Yao blinked. "Duets would be fine."

Yong Soo gave a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders, though just as he turned away Yao could spot him rolling his eyes. "I'll see you later."

When Yao muttered his goodbye and the door shut, he eased out a breath. The house was noticeably quiet after Yong Soo left. What had happened to that waltz, exactly? He turned to investigate, when he bumped into a figure. Jia Long had just been on his frantic way to the door, pale faced.

" _Aiyah_ … Why did you stop playing?"

"I finished it."

"Without the metronome as well?"

"S-Sure," Jia Long said hastily. He yanked open the door. "See you next week."

The door slammed shut, and this time, he was alone. His tired body fell to his couch, eyeing the newspaper lying on his coffee table. He wondered what the theatre looked like now, all polished and put back together, changed so that it fit with the rest of this increasingly modern city. He mulled on that for a minute or two, before helplessly dozing off.

.

Though Yao's nap had been tortuously short, and his work at Frisco's exhausting, by the time he got home and slumped into bed, still in his suit, he was no longer tired. The night had a strange way of doing that to him.

He passed the first hour away on his phone, playing soundbites of that language he'd heard that man speak to him in the theatre. None of it registered the way it had then. It was all meaningless sounds to Yao's ears now, though he had the nagging feeling something was different about this language, too. The way the man had spoken, his voice was deep, but his words had a lightness to them, a clarity like bells in the wind. Yao sighed and shut his phone, not sure if he was even chasing something real. Only in dreams could you seemingly understand a language you never learnt.

The second hour was spent worrying. He would hardly call it an infatuation, but since that dream-like encounter in the theatre, Yao had been trying to find ways to meet him again. He looked for the flickering glow of the stage lights through the theatre doors, searched for scuffles in the dark, for the trickle of piano notes on that hollow stage, but was only ever met with disappointment. At some point, due to the renovations, he couldn't even enter the building. Yao was locked out, and had to sit at home with his restless hands and his furrowed brow, waiting for sunrise. Sometimes he tried to sleep –

 _(close your eyes again for me)_

– but nightmares dressed as dreams, cloaks of flames and urgent whispers, only brought him further unrest. He needed the peace of that theatre. He needed that song again, that swaying, dizzying piece that had carried him off somewhere. How did it go again?

The canary chirped from the living room. It sounded lonely, so Yao got out of his rustled sheets to give it company. He pulled off the cover of its cage, and smiled when the bird greeted him.

"What is it, _Bǎobèi_?" He opened the cage and extended his hand to the bird, allowing it to step onto his index finger. "Aren't you tired?"

The canary made panicked quips as it darted glances around the room. Its chest pulsed quickly, as though its heart would burst through. Yao tried to lightly stroke the top of its beak, though it wouldn't sit still enough for him to do that. He looked around the room for what was making it so jumpy, but there was nothing, merely the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

"Shall we go for a walk?" Yao asked as he turned back to look at the bird. "Hm?" It was past midnight, and by now most of the city lights were out, but the walk to the theatre would be short. Besides, it had been a long while since he played for Kiku. Perhaps he could find a way into the building, now that the renovations were complete.

His hands were jittery as he placed the bird into its travel cage. Slipping on his shoes, he hoisted his violin bag onto his shoulder, picked up the cage, and stepped out into the mid-October chill.

The walk to the theatre wasn't quite the peaceful ordeal it usually was. On a Friday night, most young expats took to spending their salaries on the restaurants and clubs of the former French Concession, where its elegance could have fooled you that you were walking through the quaint streets of Paris or London, had it not been for the local man frying unidentifiable meat in the street corner, or the elderly woman dumping water on loud partygoers from her balcony window. It was with relief that he ducked through the quiet alleyways and the old park, walking further away from the drunken noises until it was silent, and his feet reached the bottom of polished, smoothed steps. He glanced up to find his dear theatre, now dressed up in glossy posters and modern doors.

Since the front doors were locked, Yao would have to take an old way in – a route through the back he and Kiku took when renovation attempts were being made on the main doors. He walked around to a tight alleyway behind the building, where there was an unassuming entrance: a stairwell that dipped down into the ground and led to a cage door. Its gates were rusted and weakened by more than half a century of rainfall. The lock had long since broken off.

He slipped in past the cage door, entering a muddy passageway before finding his way into the building itself. Upstairs, he ducked through cobwebbed and cramped hallways, snaking through the paths actors and acrobats would take backstage, lest they should be seen by their patrons and break the illusion of a spectacular show. Yao parted the heavy curtains of the front stage, stepping out into a faint shaft of light.

From up here, the entirety of the theatre expanded before him; red velvet seats dyed indigo by moonlight; archways yawning up towards the sky with polished dark wood and curling, twisting vines of glittering gold; windows pierced just below the dome, flooding the theatre with a pale glow. Yao's heart fluttered at the sight of this, standing here at centre stage and feeling as though someone was watching, waiting for him to speak.

He sat off the edge of the stage, setting the cage beside him. Still a little dazed, he fumbled to get his violin out of the bag. The bird chirped in anticipation. When he was poised to begin, he focused his gaze on a theatre seat, thinking for a moment of Kiku sitting there as a child, his feet dangling over the edge of the seat. And there had been a smile, a little limp one as though Kiku didn't quite feel it, as though he was only smiling for Yao's sake and not his own. Or was Yao, perhaps, remembering things differently –?

The canary fell silent.

Yao blinked and looked to the bird. It was shaking in its cage. " _Baobei–?"_

Footsteps scuffled softly across carpet. Yao snapped his gaze to the shadows beyond the seats, watching with a crawling chill as a pale face emerged from the shadows. Heavy-lidded eyes smiled at him, a glimmer of playfulness that the man's cruel line of a mouth lacked.

"You again."

" _Did you miss me?_ " The man's voice was deep, murmuring, still ringing like winter bells in a language that should have been foreign to Yao.

"You understand me, don't you?" Yao asked. "Why don't you speak in my language?"

The man didn't answer, only glanced down at his feet as he walked up to the stage in leisurely strides. When he reached the stage and stood close by Yao's feet, he looked up and considered Yao with a blinkless, levelled gaze. Yao scrutinised him back, burning his own stare into the man's face. He focused on the man's tall nose, which he noticed, was slightly crooked as if it had once been broken.

" _You shine like her, in the moonlight…"_ the man sighed, reaching a hand out towards Yao's. A gold ring gleamed on his finger. " _I wonder if you feel like her, too."_

Yao pulled his hand away. A dark chuckle left the man's pale lips.

" _Tell me your name._ "

Yao didn't answer; he wouldn't answer to anything spoken in that language. He wasn't sure how or why he could hear words that sounded foreign but felt familiar. All he knew was that this man had appeared in Yao's sanctuary uninvited, and was yielding this language knowingly, teasingly to Yao, confusing him.

"I don't speak Russian," Yao said in his own tongue, though he didn't expect this man to understand. Perhaps that was the point. He straightened up to sit taller above the other man. "You'll just have to translate."

The man blinked in surprise – a rare and fleeting expression on such a stony face. He took a small step back and offered a faint smile. " _My Chinese is not very good; I'd be embarrassed to have you hear me that way..._ "

Yao raised a brow, and watched the man before him make something he was quite obviously uncomfortable with: compromise.

"… but if it suits you better, I can try."

Yao felt the conflicting urge to smile. At best, he had been anticipating heavily-accented Mandarin, but this was beyond his expectations. Yao spoke back brightly, in the language he only ever used with elderly locals these days, or with relatives who'd long since left the city: "You speak Shanghainese?"

"What else would I speak here?"

"Mandarin is usually enough for foreigners. What's your name?"

The man's expression softened, eyes lingering on Yao's face before answering. "Viktor Braginsky. And yours must be –"

"Yao Wang."

"…I see."

The stage fell quiet; a silence in which the faint rustle of fabric was enough to startle Yao, as Viktor's icy hand took hold of his wrist. They looked hungry, those pale, unblinking eyes, as if wanting to drag Yao into their depths, driven by something unspoken that he couldn't even begin to unveil.

"The song," Viktor eventually whispered out, his grip relaxing. Perhaps Yao was seeing things, fabricating a flimsy connection between him and this man, but he thought he could see grief in those wintry eyes. "Let me play it to you once more."

Yao's gut instinct told him to leave – he was starting to feel strangely ill, like bats were flying madly in his chest – but he knew he would only face less real, less escapable nightmares at home. "Yes," he said, watching the light fade on Viktor's face as the moon hid behind the clouds. "I'd like that."

.

Yesterday it was the sock drawer; today it was the wardrobe. Ivan didn't question it.

Squinting in the daylight from his window, he rummaged through the pile of clothes on the end of his bed, looking for the least wrinkled items. There was nothing he could do about a locked wardrobe, and besides – he glanced at the clock as he got dressed – he was twenty minutes late. He should have been out of his apartment and on the metro twenty minutes ago.

His alarm started to ring. He picked it up and cursed it as he turned it off. He looked around his room for socks, surprisingly finding none on the floor. He grabbed the handle of his sock drawer, took a little breath, and yanked it open.

Rows upon rows of neatly folded socks. As it should be. He grabbed a pair and slipped them on, tied his shoes, grabbed his briefcase and then, yes, the pills. He hadn't taken any since last night, as the faint throb in his right arm reminded him. He took two – dry, because he was in too much of a hurry to get a glass of water. He coughed as he locked his apartment door.

On the metro, he sat with his notes, navigating the drunken scribblings of the night before. Something had come to him a few months ago when he'd first arrived in Shanghai – a dream, or perhaps a memory, of a melody. He could no longer recall what it had even sounded like, only how it felt, a tainted sweetness, like nostalgia for something he'd never known. Sometimes at night, he could hear it ringing faintly, though he could never quite catch it; had since been straining his head for it, begging to whatever cruel muse he had that it would be returned to him.

His symphony simply wouldn't be complete without it. Though he told Katya that he'd found it, the final piece, that it was all ready to be given to the choreographers and the orchestra players, he was sure it would come to him by the time they'd recruited everyone. He was close. He was getting it, note by note, drip by drip from wispy recollection.

He felt his hand around his pocket, realising he had yet to receive a berating text from Katya for his lateness. His hand felt an empty trouser pocket. No wonder.

The metro doors hushed open, the crowds pushing by his seat. He stood up. This was his stop.

.

Yong Soo had been looking at him funny all morning. He'd stopped by Yao's house to settle his nerves before his audition at the theatre; distracting himself with the canary and pillaging Yao's food cupboards before seating himself on the couch to wait. When the clock finally struck half past eleven, Yong Soo's hands were wringing themselves in his lap. It was only ever in black trousers and ties that he became jumpy like this – only when auditions called – and so Yao didn't think too much of the paranoid looks coming his way, nor of the insistent claim that Yao had a black cat _somewhere_ in his house.

"I told you, I _wish_ I had one, but the canary wouldn't last a day with one around," Yao said as he locked the front door. Yong Soo shrugged, hoisting his cello bag up onto his shoulders. He insisted that he didn't need help loading it into the car, leaving Yao to wait patiently at the wheel. He heard Yong Soo curse softly behind him.

"What?"

"I left my coat on your couch."

"Well, go get it. Your audition's in half an hour."

Yao dropped his house keys into Yong Soo's open palm, shooing him away so they wouldn't be late. If it had been his own audition, he would have been inclined to tempt fate by taking his time. But as Yong Soo's chauffeur, it was only getting on his nerves.

It took a good minute for Yong Soo to re-emerge from the house. He came out holding his coat, not wearing it, almost letting it hang down to his knees. He dumped it in the backseats with the cello and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Let's go."

The drive to the theatre was expectedly frenzied. Squeezing out of jammed lanes and into tight shortcuts, almost getting his side view mirror ripped off by a bullet-speed motorbike driver – it was business as usual in high-traffic Shanghai. An impending audition made it a different story altogether. By the time they'd arrived at the theatre, seven minutes to twelve, Yong Soo had already climbed into the backseat to grab his cello and was waiting at the edge of his seat for a quick getaway. When Yao stopped the car, a neatly folded paper brushed against his shoulder.

"What's this?"

"Yours is at one."

Yao swivelled around his seat. " _What?_ "

Yong Soo unwrapped his coat off Yao's violin bag. "Don't get mad at me, okay –?"

" _Aiyah!_ I'm already mad! I'm more than mad. I _told_ you –"

"Look, I got everything sorted out. I brought your letter of confirmation, your violin, _and_ I hid a spare suit and tie for you in the back, because as you know I'm a fantastic pal like that–"

"A good friend wouldn't make an application for me without asking!"

"Well, _so-rry_ for exploiting an employment opportunity on your behalf. I'm terrible, I know."

"And anyway," Yao said, flicking his wrist to open the folded letter. "What am I supposed to play when I go there? Did you think of that? I haven't prepared any of these…" He faltered when he glanced at the repertoire listed on the letter. It was everything they'd been playing at Frisco's for the past two weeks. At Yong Soo's request.

"I think you're pretty well prepared."

Yao folded the letter and slapped Yong Soo's arm with it. "You meddling –"

"You can thank me later!" Yong Soo chuckled as he ducked out the car, dragging his cello bag behind. "Wish me luck!"

"Go to –" The door slammed shut. "–hell."

Yong Soo grinned and waved cheerfully as he backed his way towards the theatre. Then he nearly tripped on the steps, and decided to start walking properly. Yao sighed and softly wished him luck.

He leaned back in his seat and stared at the letter in his hands. An audition for a prestigious orchestra, in the theatre he considered a second home. A year ago, Yao would have pounced at the opportunity. Now it was like diving off a cliff. His hands were clammy. This was what Kiku wanted, for the both of them, and so what would be so terrible about auditioning, anyway? Would it be so bad to break the routine he'd preserved the past year? Would it truly mean something if Yao spent fewer hours at home, took fewer sleepless walks in the night, became so busy with playing for the orchestra that perhaps, he wouldn't even have time to think about how empty his house felt? The minutes went by like guilt-wrought seconds imagining a life where he'd forgotten Kiku.

A finger tapped on his window. He was startled to find Yong Soo standing outside, still wearing his grin. He rolled the window down.

"How did it go?"

"I think I just destroyed my musical career," Yong Soo croaked out. His teeth chattered as he chuckled. "Aren't you up in a half an hour?"

Yao glanced to the clock on the dashboard. Had he really spent half an hour dazed off in here? "I don't know."

"Come on." Yong Soo opened the door. "Let's wait inside. I think I saw a vending machine in there."

Waiting inside, despite the warmth and the snacks, was worse. In the practice room next door, violins and flutes and cellos fought and struggled to overpower each other. Last minute practice. Kiku never bothered with it. He was always calm, to the last second, until the final curtain call. Yao never used to understand it – he was one of those kids furiously reciting bits and pieces of repertoire in an effort for perfection. Now, holding his violin in his lap, he knew better.

"Number 23?" the stage manager called out from the doorway. Yong Soo nudged Yao's shoulder.

"Isn't that you?"

Yao tensed in his seat, fumbling with his letter to see his number. He shot out of his seat, saving his violin from falling before walking over towards the stage manager. With his heart feeling like it was beating in his throat, he followed the manager to his spot backstage. A black curtain had been set up, concealing the path from his spot backstage to centre-stage. He slipped off his shoes and walked across, stopping when he caught sight of the grand piano, shaded by the curtain. Yao wanted to look away –

 _(– but he had always loved watching him play it, seeing those hands flit from key to key, up and down octaves, lighter than air yet stronger than a crashing waterfall. Viktor had reminded him of that, had filled a little void Yao forgot was empty –)_

He lifted the violin to his shoulder, facing away from the piano. He took a measured breath, the only sound in this silent theatre, and began.

The first piece of his repertoire began smoothly. With his eyes lost in the black of the screen, he could easily imagine it was only another night at Frisco's, playing for happily drunk couples, to whom any pleasant-sounding melody would do. And then there was a pair of rushed footsteps, the familiar, yawning creak of a door which sent a chill up Yao's spine. His eyes fluttered closed, feeling something different now. The air felt cooler, maybe, or perhaps his nerves had eased up. His fingers were moving faster, smoother, and soon it was as if they weren't his anymore. The melody changed. The tone flipped, and what was once a sprite tune was now a rich, sombre one. Bleeding into his violin was an expressiveness he only reserved for when he was alone, for those peaceful moments in which he wished Kiku was listening. Whispers filled up the theatre beyond the screen, rising. Yao knew it, this voice emerging from his violin, he knew it from somewhere…

The curtains hushed as they were yanked away. Yao halted, surprised by the man now towering over him. Viktor, he realised, was much taller than he'd expected.

"That piece," Viktor said, his gold ring glittering on his finger as he pulled the screen back further, his knuckles white. "Where did you learn it?"

Yao blinked, hearing the frustrated sighs of the judges from the audience seats. He furrowed his brow. He briefly wondered if it was a trick question. "From you. You played it for me."

Viktor's pale, almost sickly, face shook. "I've never met you in my life."

.

His name, apparently, was Ivan.

That was the name barked out as the stage manager pulled Yao away by the arm, hearing the sound of a woman speaking rapidly in foreign words as the man with the golden ring was pulled away, too. Yao was taken back to the waiting room, and was kept there for several hours.

The crowd thinned out with each wave of auditions, contenders with flutes and cellos being escorted in and out of the room for their semi-final and final auditions. Yong Soo became louder and braver with every audition passed, and now, knowing he'd made it into the orchestra, he was chatting up a new friend – a pianist, probably – by the vending machine. Yao and the other violinists occasionally shared impatient glances. None of them had been called back for subsequent auditions, but they hadn't been dismissed either.

Yao tried not to give it away that this was likely his own fault. Or rather, Ivan's fault, for yanking that screen away, for making a spectacle out of it, too. _I've never met you in my life –_ those were dramatic words. Irritatingly confident. Was Yao really that forgettable? Or was perhaps Yao being forgetful himself? How could he be sure, after all, if he had met Viktor – _Ivan_ – in shadows and half-light? Did he mishear his name, too? Worse yet, how could he be sure those meetings had even taken place, that they weren't dreams instead?

How could he even be sure _this_ was real? The days were split haphazardly by stolen naps; midnight, dawn and dusk often followed the other uninterrupted. He dug his nail hard into his arm just to make sure. The sting, whilst confirming that this was not a dream, did little else to clear his confusion.

The sky outside grew dark with the wait. Yong Soo had, at some point, left with his new friend, though Yao couldn't recall seeing him make his escape. It was with a collective fidget in their seats that he and the other violinists watched the stage manager enter the room. The auditions for violin, the stage manager informed them, had been compromised, and would have to take place again the next day. Among mutters and groans, Yao felt strange relief. Relief that he could reclaim his lifeless, comfortable routine for yet another day.

He walked to his car alone, grimacing at the distant barking of students on their way to clubs and bars. He didn't like to see this street crowded. It ruined the sense of age of the theatre, the delicate history Yao could only imagine but never fully know. He reached for the ice-cold handle of his car door, when he noticed the reflection of a figure that was not his own.

"Can I help you?" Yao asked as he turned around. He had to tilt his head up to look at this man, this not-Viktor, in the eyes.

"I'm sorry," Ivan fumbled, in heavily accented but surprisingly eloquent Mandarin. "I must have inconvenienced you, with the yanking of the screen. I'm not sure how to explain myself…"

"You can speak to me in Shanghainese, if that's easier for you. Or did you forget that, too?"

Ivan's brows furrowed. He had dark circles under his eyes, and after a moment's scrutiny, Yao realised that his nose looked different too, somehow. Straighter, though this could easily be a mere trick of the light. Yes, a trick of the light. He was sure this was the Viktor he had met before. Certain. He even had the same golden ring, on his left ring finger.

"I don't speak Shanghainese," Ivan said, slowly like Yao was being the strange one here.

Yao scoffed. "You think this is funny, don't you?"

"What is funny?"

"Pretending you don't remember. Switching languages just to confuse me. Did you make a bet with a friend?"

"No, I –"

"Tell me, are you winning right now? Am I agitated enough for you?"

"Listen, I –" Ivan broke into a weak chuckle. He made a step forward that was one step too far for Yao, forcing him to back up against the car to maintain his space. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But what you played in there… I've been writing it."

"I'm not surprised. You played it to me two weeks ago."

"But that's the thing: _I_ have no such recollection of doing that."

"Maybe you were drunk," Yao said, though it was a story he didn't buy himself. Ivan didn't buy it either. Yet both of them were happy to pretend.

"Maybe." Ivan's eyes studied the features of Yao's face, his brows drawing in careful focus. Yao waited for him to break the gaze, to step back so he could turn around and get in his car. When the moment lingered on for too long, he cleared his throat.

"Problem solved, then."

"It seems so."

"I should be going –"

"Oh, no, of course –"

" – if you could just –"

Ivan stumbled back, giving Yao leeway to open his car door. Just as he started up his engine, Ivan had leaned down to peer in through the window, his words muffled by the glass.

"You're coming to the audition tomorrow."

Yao assumed he had meant it as a question, even if it sounded more like a command. He waved his hand dismissively, eventually nodding in the hopes it would appease him enough to be left alone.

"And Yao?"

Yao looked to him expectantly. Ivan made a small motion with his hand for Yao to roll down the window. Yao sighed and opened it halfway.

"What is it?"

Ivan's lips swept into a gentle smile. "I look forward to hearing you again tomorrow."

"Let's hope you remember me."

"I'm certain I will. Have a good night."

Yao couldn't help but scoff at that. "I'll try."

It wasn't until he'd started up the engine, until he began to drive off, that he realised Ivan had remembered his name, if not anything else. Drunken blackouts did strange things to people – at least that's what Yao told himself as he glanced at the rear-view mirror, watching the lingering, half-lit form in the distance.

He lay his head on his pillow that night dreading nightmares, fearing shadows. Yet what haunted him most as he trained his tortuously half-lidded eyes on his ceiling, was the thought of Viktor.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! I'll *try* to be a bit quicker with the next update ahah. Feel free to leave your thoughts via review, feedback is very much appreciated :)**


	3. False Cadence

Pale hands fluttered over the piano keys like doves, gracefully falling in a way that was too perfect, too familiar to be real. Yao leaned onto the piano player next to him, feeling cold but desperately trying not to be; if Kiku was here, then nothing could be wrong. Nothing _should_ be wrong. His chest fluttered and ate itself up with the thought of holding those delicate hands. His voice ached to say something, to make Kiku smile. Yet the shoulder he was leaning against was cold. The piano keys stayed sunken with each note. The music faltered, numbed and deafened with every pounding of those now-writhing hands. Ivory keys cracked and crumbled, blood-specked pages fluttered and burned, and in silence he was screaming –

Raindrops. Tip-tapping against his window. Panting.

The air was rushing through his dry throat, hot against his face when he gasped and exhaled onto his pillow. Outside the rain was plucking metallic notes from the drainage pipes. The canary crooned softly in the living room.

He twisted to the cooler side of his bed, curled and trembling. He wanted something, or someone, to keep him still, to hold him together like shattered pieces of a broken bottle. And like every night that this dream had come to visit him, he waited this feeling out, stayed still and regained his breath. He didn't let fear have him. He fought tooth and nail. He squeezed his eyes shut and pretended he couldn't feel a gaze on him.

A breeze teased into the room (the window, he reminded himself, he'd left the bathroom window open) and pulled the bedroom door open. There was a creak – a slow, winding groan like rope twisting in the air, burdened by the weight hanging from it.

 _(– painless, dear, he)_

He buried his face into his pillow, not wanting to look and yet fearing if he didn't this…. _thing_ , this shadow, this living-breathing-nightmare might come closer.

 _(wouldn't have felt a thing)_

The neck snapped, and the limbs hanging like willow branches at its sides. He could see it, could imagine this broken creature beyond the door. He heard the rope swing, the crushed breath wheezing through, the desperate choke as feet began to dance and hands clawed at the rope. A small cry broke through.

Yao shot out of the sheets, hand fumbling to turn on the light. The door was shut. No one was there.

He exhaled heavily, trying to laugh at himself. Is that all it took anymore? An imagined breeze? He got out of bed to find that his legs were trembling, that his teeth were chattering, too. He had hoped the nightmares would go away, in time, but a year later they had only worsened. Night by night, they crept further out from the shadows, further into his waking moments, and the more he struggled, the tighter the grip got.

He got dressed and left the house for his audition, even though dawn had only just broken out on the horizon outside.

.

At the strike of noon, Ivan felt a sudden jump in his stomach. The auditions would begin soon, and though he would be seated comfortably in the darkness of the theatre seats, his pulse fluttered at the thought of the man whose name he knew despite never asking for it. The man who knew Ivan's music, without Ivan ever showing him, who played it quietly in the practice rooms just this morning. Ivan couldn't brave himself to talk to him, not wanting to interrupt, but he was too enamoured with how his notes had come to life through Yao's fingers to not listen in, hanging around in the hallway until the last possible moment.

Katya was waiting for him in the foyer, only cheerfully asking him about his morning. Ivan was thankful for that; in the seconds of walking to their seats, there was little space for her to ask him probing questions about the completion of the symphony, which for the past few several weeks, Ivan had lied about through omission. The deadline had been at the start of the autumn season, and Katya – dear Katya who had such optimistic faith in him – presumed it was ready. Ivan could only hope that he would finish off the rest of it swiftly, before Katya asked for the sheets of the final movement only to find a half-written symphony on her desk.

They filed into the front row seats of the theatre, with Katya seating him between her and another committee member. No escape, it seemed, if Ivan wanted to pull the same stunt twice. The lights dimmed, the stage brightened, and when the first contestant stepped out onto the stage and traversed behind the black curtain, Ivan began a game he should not be playing.

He listened to their footsteps. Though all contestants were asked to remove their shoes before audition – lest the click of a pair of heels should inadvertently affect the score given – Ivan could still listen for weight, for the gracefulness of the steps, looking for the quiet strides of a lightly framed man.

It wasn't until the fifth or so audition that he thought he'd found him. Careful, barely audible steps like one of a cat, and when the bow struck against the strings of the violin, Ivan could almost feel it. It was as though the air itself had changed, growing cold to raise the hair on the nape of his neck. This was the sound that had compelled him before, the vivid expression in that man's music. _Yao_ – whose name Ivan seemed to just know, like he'd plucked it out of thin air. Part of him rationalised that he'd probably caught a glance at the list of names on Katya's roster, or that he was selectively remembering information from the night he was supposedly drunk. But most of him wanted to believe that it was divine intervention; that just like his music, Yao's name had been given to him by some unseen force.

He was tempted to pull that curtain away again. But he knew better. He waited, enduring the rest of the auditions and rehearsing out in his head how he would approach Yao. Firstly, it would be to congratulate him, yes, on succeeding these auditions as Ivan was certain he would. And then… then what?

It wasn't until about an hour later that all the auditions had been screened, and the committee members votes had been made. When Katya called out the names of the successful applicants in the waiting room, Ivan was pleased to hear Yao's. But Yao – whose charcoal eyes remained attentively on Katya as she gave an overview of all the work the new musicians had to catch up to – only gave the slightest hint of relief.

This relief quickly disappeared when Katya introduced Ivan as the symphony's composer and maestro.

"There is no need to be afraid," Ivan chuckled, noticing the slight change in the new musicians' demeanours when he stepped forward to speak. "This piece is nothing too technically complex, but I expect each one of you to bring your full heart into it. Rehearsal starts tomorrow at nine a.m., where…"

The skin on his throat began to sting faintly, a gentle pain that would have not have bothered him much had he not known what was coming. He swallowed, his gaze swaying until it landed on Yao. Oh, he could see it, couldn't he? That Ivan wasn't right, that he was sick. He drew the scarf further up his throat, despite the warmth growing there.

"Well," Katya interrupted, clapping her hands together. A tiny, albeit strained smile flashed on her lips. "That's all for today. We'll see you here tomorrow morning. Thank you for your time."

The handful of musicians began to wander out the room, chatting amongst themselves in what Ivan could only imagine was bewilderment. Yao silently left with them. Katya's hand touched Ivan's shoulder.

"Vanya –"

"I know."

He hurried out of the room, though it wasn't to take his medication like Katya was nudging him to do. He pulled the scarf closer up his throat and followed the crowd out into the cold afternoon air. It was now or never – or so he felt – to approach Yao.

Ivan quickened his steps to catch up to Yao's pace. "As expected, you played beautifully."

Yao glanced over at him. His gaze flitted elsewhere. "How can you be sure it was me?"

"Your voice on the violin is unmistakeable."

Yao halted in his tracks, almost wincing as he turned to face Ivan. "Is it really? Did you really know it was me?"

Ivan faltered for a moment – then he saw Yao do the same, perhaps realising that he had just snapped at the conductor of the orchestra he now worked for. A smile glazed over Ivan's lips. He decided to spare him the embarrassment with a distraction, as amusing as it was to see him flustered.

"I noticed you didn't play our piece."

" _Our_ piece?"

"Well, mine. But you seem to have spontaneously created the same one, as if you plucked it out of my head –"

"We've talked about this. You played it for me."

"… Right."

They reached Yao's car. Ivan had to come up with something fast, if he ever wanted to understand what truly happened that forgotten night at the theatre, if perhaps Yao somehow had the last piece of Ivan's incomplete symphony. He placed his hand on Yao's shoulder, wearing his gentlest and sweetest smile. "Perhaps you want to return the favour by playing it for me instead?"

Yao slipped away from him. "You really don't remember anything about those nights, do you?"

Ivan's smile wavered. No, he didn't remember anything. Just like he didn't remember how his sock drawer got locked, somehow, or how things in his room appeared to have been imperceptibly moved overnight. But not even in sleepwalk could he do something as odd as visit an abandoned theatre at night; he double-dosed at night, to make sure the drugs knocked him out well. He thought he did it to keep the pain from ebbing in during his sleep, though it wasn't really the pain he dreaded when he went to bed at night.

"My memory is a fickle thing," Ivan said, laughing it off as he tugged his scarf up. "But perhaps you'd like to help me fill in the gaps. I'm not sure if you've ever had a blackout before, but it's unnerving not knowing what foolish things I might have said…"

Yao's brow relaxed slightly. "Not… exactly foolish." He stood there for a moment, hand on the car door handle. He glanced to Ivan, looking almost apologetic. "I don't really have time this week, but –" Yao pursed his lips, sighing before continuing. "Have you been to Frisco's before?"

"I know of it."

"I play there most evenings. If you really want to use up my time asking me questions, you'd best do it there between requests."

"Tonight?"

Yao yanked the door open and climbed in, attempting to sound dismissive. "Sure. See you then."

Ivan's relieved farewell was drowned out by the crunch of the wheels on gravel.

.

Frisco's was a place stuck between the old and the new.

Named in commemoration of the old Frisco cabaret and café, the establishment boasted authenticity in its preservation of the original building. Visitors were told that they would be seated beneath the same ceiling that had housed patrons almost a century ago – even though the original café had actually been located across the road, where the new shopping mall was. Though, yes, this building _had_ been around during the golden age of Shanghai, albeit housing prostitutes instead of coffee-drinkers and entertainers.

And instead of the roaring jazz that would have once wafted out of these doors and onto the street of Xikou Road, then known as Blood Alley, there was only the dry repetition of the same handful of violin concertos. Yao and Yong Soo were pushing their luck playing here. Without the spontaneity and brightness of their piano player, their music was fitting for a stuffy restaurant at best.

Which was why Yao should have been grateful to the new addition to their concert band; a perpetually-smiling pianist that Yong Soo had quickly befriended at the auditions the day before. As a trio, they looked a little less pathetic, sure – but more than anything, those cool trickling piano notes only served to irk Yao. He already hated this piece after playing it on repeat for multiple evenings a week. Now there was someone taking Kiku's place, attempting to fill in that role as if _anyone_ could do it.

He didn't want to dwell on it. He looked at the tart velvet curtains and the fake gold-painted décor. He glazed his eyes over the shadowy alcoves at the back where couples went to dance sometimes. He watched the patrons as they refilled their drinks and laughed with flushed faces across mucky tables, wandering his bored eyes from table to table. Then he stopped.

Ivan was seated close to the front, though Yao had no idea as to how he missed this towering man in a crowded place like this. Their eyes met, and a smile sprang onto Ivan's lips. Yao couldn't manage to keep eye contact after that; he pretended to be intensely focused on his violin-playing, faking a furrowed brow to escape Ivan's intimidating presence. He was the conductor, after all, though perhaps there was something more – a shroud of inexplicable unease that followed that man around. It was one that caused Yao to fumble when the piece ended. Yong Soo quietly laughed it off, and just as Yao was about to make a retort to him, the sound of Ivan's voice stopped him.

"If I could make a request…"

All eyes of the trio were drawn to Ivan, who had quickly risen up to approach them.

"What request would that be?" Yao asked. Ivan tilted his head to the side slightly, his smile growing coy. Yao didn't really need to ask, nor did Ivan even need to answer. Still, the expectation hung in the air, waiting until Yao gave out a tiny sigh through his nose. "I barely remember how I played it. But you wrote yourself, right? So why don't _you_ play it?"

Ivan hummed. He could see through the lie, somehow, but Yao refused to play that piece – not here, not now. "Okay. I'll start playing it."

Yao opened his mouth to speak in half-hesitation, watching Ivan take a seat at the piano and leaving Yong Soo's friend standing awkwardly to the side. Ivan made a hand motion for Yao to sit beside him.

"Stop me if you know what comes next."

Yao tentatively took his seat on the piano stool, stealing a glance at Ivan's poised hands on the yellowed and abused piano keys. His fingertips began to dance over the keys, teasing out notes like raindrops. The murmurings of Frisco's patrons grew a little quieter, voices lowering to catch every delicate note, each verse more familiar to Yao than the last. Viktor or not, this music was the same he heard that night in the theatre. And those hands – alabaster white like that of a ghoul's, like those of Kiku's – were surely the same.

But throughout the rest of the evening, he never told Ivan to stop.

The clock had struck ten, and by then Yong Soo and his friend, as well as many of Frisco's customers, had left for more exciting places to be. Ivan had gone in circles with his music, playing up to a point, hesitating, and then starting again, sometimes going off in tangents, pondering notes and improvised melodies. Yao never spoke up about these gaps in Ivan's music, though he felt the faintest memory of the rest on the tip of his tongue.

"I guess you've forgotten it completely," Ivan said, idly playing a gentle and lazy piece, quiet enough to leave space for conversation. Yao didn't partake. He watched Ivan's softly furrowed brow as he played, wondering when the mask of Viktor would appear again. If, at the stroke of midnight, Ivan liked to play games; if it amused him to play the role of the brooding widow, the broken prince, the dangerous yet alluring tempter; if he found pleasure in stirring unease in Yao by questioning his sanity. "Or perhaps we never really met before the audition. A coincidence, maybe, that you happened to play the exact notes in the right order, to make something uncannily similar to my own…"

"Perhaps," Yao said dryly.

Ivan lifted his face up from its slump, facing Yao with a tired look. "You are… sure you saw me that night, in the theatre?"

Glasses clinked nearby where the staff were starting to clean up. Yao pretended to be distracted by it, refused to dignify the question. Of course he was sure. That man, Viktor or Ivan or otherwise, who'd played for him in that broken down theatre, was the very same one that was sitting beside him. Yao was sure – that was, perhaps, what was most confusing to him. He was almost certain of it, yet it begged other questions that neither he nor Ivan, apparently, had answers to.

"Your ring," he said, to ease the silence. "Is it an engagement ring?"

Ivan's creased brow relaxed. He chuckled. "No. It's a family heirloom." He fiddled with the ring on his hand, twisting it side to side.

"We're closing in five," the bar owner said, grabbing the glasses off the top of the piano. Yao stood up from his seat. Ivan remained seated. He glanced at Yao, the smile now numbing away.

"You're going home?"

"I've got a rehearsal tomorrow."

"It's still early. Any chance I could tempt you for a drink elsewhere?"

Yao blinked. "A drink."

"By the waterfront, perhaps." Ivan stood up, making it apparent to Yao that he was a good head-and-a-half taller. "So we can have a view."

"A view."

Ivan's polite smile now had a teasing edge to it. "Does that sound good to you?"

It sounded like a thinly veiled attempt to get Yao to write the rest of that symphony for the price of a drink. Or to gaslight him even further, to grow and nourish the seeds of doubt already planted in his mind, the ones that were starting to have Yao think that either Ivan was lying, or that he himself had dreamt up the entire ordeal at the theatre.

He was certainly tempted, albeit to abandon this man rather than have a drink with him. He could so easily go home and forget about this, could simply lay his head down on his pillow and close his eyes in that dark and lonely room and…

"Is something wrong?"

Yao took another look at Ivan, at the strangely genuine concern on his face.

"You know what? A drink would be great."

.

The first bar they visited after Frisco's was nothing special. The lights were dim and the seats were well-worn out. The first pair of beers were sipped away at carefully. Yao feigned interest in the pictures on the wall, certain that Ivan's interested gaze on him was anything _but_ feigned. Worse, when Yao glanced to him, Ivan didn't dart his eyes away.

"Yao, this will seem like a silly question to you," Ivan started, leaning closer with his arm on the back of the couch, "but do you sometimes feel like we've met before, somehow?"

"We _have_ met before."

"No, I mean… before that. Before the audition, before…"

"The theatre?"

"It feels like I've met someone a lot like you before, or as if you're an old childhood friend whose name I've forgotten." Ivan set his drink down and shrugged, chuckling dismissively. "But maybe that's just the alcohol talking…"

Yao sipped at his beer, pausing to catch the pensive expression on Ivan's face. He didn't quite feel that he'd met him before, not exactly, but there was a feeling not too different. He hesitated before speaking it aloud.

"You remind me of someone I know."

"Who would that be?"

"It… doesn't really make much sense…"

"No, please tell me."

Yao felt his pulse quicken, taking to the safety of his drink as a distraction. He swallowed down a gulp and shook his head.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured. He cleared his throat. "Tell me about your work. This symphony I'll be learning to play soon."

"If I'm going to be talking about that symphony, I'll need another drink. It is a curse on my life."

Yao chuckled, only Ivan didn't. "Oh… Sure, let's do that."

"How do you feel about vodka shots?"

Somewhere between the first vodka shot, and the fifth questionably-named mixed drink, they visited three different bars by the crowded waterfront. Each one was more of a blur than the last, the details of Ivan's career and life before Shanghai flowing lucidly through one ear and out the other. It wasn't until they were swaying in the street that he realised he'd made the mistake of trying to keep up with the drinking of a man nearly twice his size. The gaudy city lights were blurred and indistinct, reflecting off the wet pavement he was struggling to walk straight on.

"…it's as if I'm not meant to write it," Ivan sighed out, reaching out and pulling Yao away from the road.

"Write what?"

"The piece, Yao…" Ivan's voice softened to a hush, as if worried that strangers passing by would overhear. "The one you played so instinctively, like it was yours. That's why you have to show it to me, all of it."

Yao furrowed his brows, confused by the way his feet felt like they weren't quite touching the ground, further puzzled by why he had been so adamant about not helping Ivan with the piece in the first place. What had been his reasoning again? Was there something Ivan had said before? Yao wasn't sure, and could only think that it had been merely because he hadn't gotten the chance to properly know Ivan. No, Ivan was alright. Ivan worked hard to be here composing for one of the most prestigious orchestras in China. Ivan was dedicated to his music. Ivan was pleasant and polite, for the most part, and kind enough to link arms with Yao so he wouldn't stumble and fall face-first into the ground.

Across the water, a bell began its toll; tourists crowding by the river edge to capture the city skyline before it went dark. One by one, the buildings on either side of the river began to disappear – the high-rise glass towers on the one side, the aged colonial buildings on the other. The street Yao and Ivan were walking on began to dim, leading away from the busy main road and into the sparsely lit path that was winding through the alleyways of bars and cheap apartments.

Ivan slowed his steps, his arm snaking tighter around Yao's. His sigh brushed against the fringe of Yao's hair.

"Do you remember how we met, _lyubimoya_?"

Yao's spinning world came to a stop. In the half-light, he could only see part of Ivan's face, a luminous streak running down the one side and showing an incomplete, hazy smile on pale lips.

"How we met?"

"I came down to The Street Angel, and watched you up on that stage…"

"The Street Angel–?"

"And when I bought you a drink, you told me I was better off paying in cash instead." Ivan's bursting laughter echoed uncomfortably loudly in the narrow alleyway. His voice fell to a hum, cheek pressed to Yao's temple. "I made such a terrible first impression on you. But you looked divine to me from the start, floating down the pole like falling snow –"

"I think you're mixing me up with someone else."

The curve of Ivan's lips softened, his drunken gaze cloudy and unsure. "Oh…"

They approached the next street lamp, leaving the closed in alleyway for an open street. Conversation resumed with the pace of a crawl, feeble questions about Yao's life outside of the theatre and hummed responses when Yao's answers were nothing remarkable. They reached the outer gates of a high-rise apartment building. Ivan froze in his steps, tilting his head up towards the building. Yao stumbled when he did the same.

"We can give it another attempt at my apartment," Ivan said. "My mysterious little piece."

Yao exhaled, his breath forming a faint cloud – the air apparently ice-cold, though he couldn't feel it. He wanted to hear that miserable piece once more, only this time played by Viktor's hands, if that could ever be possible anymore. Desperately, he wanted to feel that loss of control, that one moment of peace he couldn't find anywhere else, but he refused to show Ivan anything more than mild interest. He shrugged. "Can I use your bathroom?"

They took the elevator up to the ninth floor, watching the dying city lights through the glass and fumbling clumsily to Ivan's door. Ivan unlocked and pushed open his door with a tired shoulder.

"I apologize for the mess," he said, flipping on the light switch and revealing a living space cluttered with loose papers, empty containers, and wrinkled clothes. Ivan picked up whatever he could on his way towards an open window. "The bathroom is down the hallway, past the bedroom."

Yao headed down the dim hallway, his hand trailing over the wall for some sense of stability. He could still feel the vodka muddling his thoughts, making every turn of the head feel like a dizzying spin. He reached the last door, pushing his hand against it for a moment before realizing it was closed shut. He turned the handle and pushed again. Nothing. He squinted in the barely lit hallway – there was no lock on the door. He jiggled the handle and pushed once more before giving up and returning to the living room.

"Hey, your bathroom won't –"

Ivan's body was slumped over the piano; his back was hunched forward, his head swaying drowsily to the soft little murmurings of the keys as he played. Kiku moved like that on the piano, though he was smaller and didn't have to hunch quite so much. Yao moved across the floor as silently as he could.

He took his seat next to Ivan. Once more he could hear the gaps and mistakes in the piece, but said nothing. He wasn't sure, but there was something sacred about what he'd heard in that theatre. Something between him and Viktor alone, and he couldn't quite bring himself to share that with Ivan, even if the two were somehow one and the same.

Ivan could perhaps sense this reluctance; not too long afterwards, he began to play something different – a waltz.

"Play with me."

Yao cast him a doubtful look. Ivan took hold of Yao's hand, balling it up into a fist and pressing it haphazardly against the black keys.

"Play any of the black keys, as you like."

Yao hesitated before pressing the black keys once more, making an atrocious cacophony out of them. He grimaced, but Ivan nodded for him to continue. It felt like clumsy child's play, until Ivan joined in – transforming mere noise into a charming waltz, elevating Yao's directionless playing into a melody. Warmth flushed across Yao's face and throat, grinning because it was almost exactly like something Kiku once did with him. It was only at the piano that he ever saw Kiku in such a spontaneous, untroubled state; it was only then he could sense carefree joy in him. It was only now that Yao could begin sense something carefree in himself.

The piece ended as quickly as it had begun. Ivan turned to face Yao on the piano seat, his face glowing.

"Look at you."

Yao blinked away the wateriness of his eyes. "Look at what?"

"You've bloomed. It's like the sun is shining on your face."

Yao scoffed, his grin softening as he shrugged. "I… just remembered something."

"What did you remember?"

Yao hesitated to answer, and in those few seconds of pause, Ivan reached out to cup Yao's face.

"No, never mind. You don't have to tell me." Ivan's gentle gaze swept over Yao's face, his warm hands smoothing Yao's cheeks. The gold ring of his finger stung cold. "I'd hate to lose that smile so quickly. It's just like hers…"

"Hers?"

"I can't remember her name, let alone what her voice even sounded like. I can barely remember her at all, though I feel like I should, like she was someone very important to me." His thumb traced the corner of Yao's lips. "That song is all I have left of her. And then you show up, with your luminous smile, completing the piece as if we were meant to play it together like two broken halves. Doesn't it feel that way to you, too? That it was pre-destined, somehow, for us to meet like this?"

"I don't know," was all Yao could croak out. His heart was pounding, but through his drunken haze he was tempted to melt right into Ivan's hands, to kiss their palms and take comfort in a human touch he'd been longing for. He smoothed over Ivan's fingers, sweeping over the ridge of the ring and across the warm plane of the back of Ivan's hand. His skin was smooth, pale as snow, growing cold as Yao's fingers travelled from wrist to arm, icy when he reached beneath the sleeve to feel a small ridge, like a fresh scar. Ivan pulled away.

"Sorry," Ivan muttered as he grabbed a pill bottle off the piano top, his breaths ragged. He popped it open with one hand and tipped out an indiscernible number of pills into his mouth. "I should have taken these earlier." He tugged his sleeves as far down as they would go, covering what Yao only felt for a split-second. "It comes and goes as it pleases, the pain, so I have to make sure…" Ivan trailed off, his face slightly flushed. "It's nothing serious."

When Yao hesitated to speak, not sure what to say, not sure what to even think, Ivan sighed.

"I understand if you want to leave."

"No, that's not what I was thinking –"

"These pills tend to make me feel drowsy, anyway. I'll probably bore you."

"They help you sleep?"

Ivan chuckled weakly. "Immensely."

Yao picked the pill bottle out from Ivan's hand, inspecting the label. The question sprung from the tip of his tongue without further hesitation. "Can I try one?"

Ivan blinked in surprise. "It's not much of an experience."

"One full night's rest is a rare enough experience for me."

Ivan's eyes softened. He gently took the pill bottle from Yao's hand, shaking out a single blue pill into his palm. "Don't swallow it," he said softly, placing the pill between Yao's lips. "Just hold it under your tongue and let it dissolve. You'll feel it much faster this way."

Yao took the pill into his mouth, keeping it underneath his tongue. A chill trembled through him when Ivan smoothed his hand over Yao's hair.

"I'm so glad to have you here, Yao," Ivan sighed. "Taking these pills every night, it's like having a drink on your own. But with you here it'll be different. We can feel the same things together. Don't you think so?"

Yao nodded, his eyelids feeling heavy as he leaned in to press his lips to Ivan's. For that one blissful moment, he wasn't thinking of anything. Not the theatre, not the auditions, not Viktor's disappearance, not Kiku nor the cage-like house he'd been unable to sleep in for the past year. None of it, because Ivan's hands were wrapping around him in a hazy cloud of pleasure, every drag of the fingertips on his back and throat and chest feeling magnified. His eyes roamed across the ceiling before he knew it, feeling weight on his chest as Ivan's lips strayed indecisively between Yao's lips and throat. Their limbs tangled up, shifting and growing tighter in their embrace like writhing snakes, pushing Yao down into the mattress, and then into someplace deeper than that, drowning him in indulgence. Consciousness slipped away, came and went like a wave of warmth, until he was sure he'd gone somewhere far away.

His eyes opened to a moonlit ceiling.

The sheets were cold. He shifted to find the mattress and pillow icy.

"Ivan?" he mumbled out. He turned around, making out a vague shape beside him in the dark. There was no response. He emerged from the sheets half-dressed, his bare feet stepping onto a strew of clothes on the floor.

Feeling his hands around the walls to stumble his way out the bedroom, he followed a streak of light, a pale glow pouring in from the window and into the hallway. He could hear Ivan groaning – a low moan muffled by the walls as Yao made his way to the last door. He grabbed the handle, forgetting that it had been locked hours before, and pushed it wide open with ease.

There, in the darkened bathroom where the light barely reached, Yao could make out two pale hanging feet, deathly white in the splash of moonlight. Rope groaned above them – swinging, moaning, stretching with the weight of the body it was choking. Yao felt the contents of his stomach rise to his throat, snatching the handle to close the door when something fell to the floor with a light metallic sound. It spun, glittered and rung against the tiles. And then it fell to rest: a golden ring.

* * *

 **A/N:** **So happy to be posting again! It's been a bit of a rocky year, and I can't guarantee a regular posting schedule (pfft even at my best I struggle with that), but hopefully this chapter and any upcoming ones were worth the wait!**

 **Anyway, as always, reviews are super-duper appreciated. If you have any particular questions or curiosities about the story, let me know, because it might just give me inspiration for the next chapter (ahah, have I mentioned that I have yet to finish this fic in its entirety as promised...?)**


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